Prelude
913.M41
Jollana Librarium
Ten thousand years was ample time to reflect on past mistakes and mend broken trust.
Or not, not when the individual still believed themselves justified in their deeds. Ahriman had denounced his exile centuries ago, preferring to call it a pursuit of arcane knowledge and understanding. One which lesser beings could not grasp, their feeble minds never looking beyond the next sunrise. He had travelled the length and breadth of the galaxy, across the five zones of the Segmentums, through the remnants of unnamed xenos civilizations. His eyes had born witness to countless conflicts, beholding feats where the mind could no longer comprehend and words paled. On planets where suns never rose and across realms of glass, the sorcerer uncovered primordial lore better left alone. Each piece was a part of the greater puzzle, the intricate tapestry which created and held the cosmos together, in comprehending the machinations of gods.
The orifkanos, acquired from the reclusia of Hellebaum. A shard of bone from the daemon B'Av Sha'Ti'Kdgusa, spirited away from a nameless world in the Eye of Terror. The spirit stone of an Eldar warlock, captured in battle against the host of Zahr-Tann. An Imperial Navigator taken from a broken battle fleet.
Each piece brought Ahriman closer to his goal of complete understanding, but it was never enough. His obsession drove him forward, a mania to outstrip those who banished him from the Planet of the Sorcerers. His quest had taken him into the Koronus Expanse, a region of the Halo Stars, to a solitary planet of ice dubbed Jollana. In the bitterly cold Imperial outpost, the only place people inhabited was the grand librarium, built atop a pinnacle of ice in the middle of the desolate wasteland.
The Jollana Ordo, charged to safeguard manuscripts millennia old, rarely allowed outsiders past its doors. The few rogue traders who braved this section of space acted as merchants for the planet; trusted enough they had been allowed inside the sole librarium and came to know what artefacts it held. Ahriman had uncovered the location from one trader and was rewarded for his efforts. In Jollana's frozen vaults lay a scroll which, when held by those trained in the arts of divination, gave the bearings of psykers whose presence would influence both present and future events. A scroll the Chaos sorcerer could use, and use well.
Ahriman's battle cruiser, the Khermuti, presently hung in low orbit over the world. On the surface lay the librarium, its occupants believing the galaxy had forgotten them. They had thought wrong. With no defences against outside forces or a way to summon aid, Jollana Librarium would fall with ease. Ahriman and his coven prepared for the expedition to the surface, holding council in the ship's strategium. Like many other chambers on the vessel, it was furnished with the trappings of those who delved into the mysteries of magic and illusions. Banners waved listlessly against the walls, stirred by the passing of will-o-wisps. The images inscribed on the cloth minutely changed appearance, never the same. Light bled into the strategium from torches ensconced on the walls, the colour of the flames flickering from a scarlet red to an icy blue.
The Thousand Sons chosen to be part of Ahriman's inner cabal stood around a circular table hewn from black marble flecked with grey. Above the table floated a three dimensional map of the Jollana Librarium, perceived weakened sections of the edifice marked in red against the dominate green. The finer points of the assault were being delegated when an aide hurried into the strategium. The mutated being bowed, well aware his presence was unasked for and unwanted, hurrying to speak.
"My Lord Ahriman, the sensors indicate a vessel has translated from the Warp not far from us." Conversation died at the aide's proclamation. Twisted and hunched over himself, the servant bowed lower under the weight of so many eyes. "It is a Vengeance-class grand cruiser, transmitting to our ship's encrypted communications channel."
"What are they saying?" Ahriman, his elaborate armour reflecting the green light of the hololith map, cut quickly to the heart of the matter.
"They desire to speak with you and no one else. The crew is waiting upon your verification before proceeding, my lord, but our weapons are armed in the event this becomes hostile. Our scryer believes the vessel originated from the Planet of the Sorcerers in part to its venerable age-"
"Fool," Ahriman hissed, his voice low and mocking. "For someone to have access to the Khermuti's personal transmission codes meant they had to have come from the Planet of the Sorcerers."
Covering its hooded face with heavily veined hands, the aide hastily apologized. Ahriman dismissed the menial before turning his attention to the Sons assembled around the table. "We shall continue this after I have dealt with the new arrival. Until then, attend to your duties and prepare yourselves for Jollana's surface."
Once the Chaos marines had left, Ahriman rose from his chair and, staff in hand, made his way to the command deck of the ship. The sorcerer's pulse raced excitedly. He did not know the meaning behind the ship's arrival, but that would change. Ahriman strode toward the technicians in charge of the voxcaster, one of the Thousand Sons beckoning him over.
"We have confirmed the Vengeance grand cruiser as one commanded by the Thousand Sons," Kapharon spoke, answering the silent question. One of the few trusted Thousand Sons under Ahriman's leadership, his captaincy was undisputed, having survived for so long with a wealth of experience. "They have matched all codes we have sent. There is no doubting their validity. By your order, we will relay with them and open a hololithic link."
"Do we have an idea of who it is?" Ahriman asked. Whoever was waiting on the other side was masterfully concealing their psychic presence, and when Kapharon shook his head, Ahriman exhaled quietly.
"Ahriman, is it possible after all this time we could be summoned home?" The hope Kapharon expressed, mirrored by the others on the bridge, pressed against Ahriman's psyche. It was too much to wish for. Ahriman waved him away.
"Have the forward batteries ready to fire should things sour. While this moment may be a turning point, it could just as easily be a trap." Caution had become a close friend to the Chaos Space Marine in his travels, one which served him well. This time was no different to any other.
Kapharon issued the order and the lower decks broke into frantic activity to obey. Ahriman stood ready at the helm, watching the coils of the hololithic display activate. A low hum reverberated across the bridge, the voxfeed squealing against the feedback. Kapharon signalled to Ahriman that the transference had gone through. The towering display screen flickered. Static hissed as the feeds struggled to align properly, and slowly an image began to focus.
It was the last face Ahriman wanted to see. Ten thousand years could change many things, but time would not change the hostility he held against Osis Pathoth.
The vizier removed his ornate death helm, his familiar ghostly smile present. Time had left the marine untouched; his eyes still judging and seeking out the inherent weakness of others. Ahriman controlled the rate of his breath, containing the anger which flared at the individual who had orchestrated his downfall. Now was not the time to lose himself in a red fury. Carefully choosing his next words, Ahriman deliberately withheld the worst of the verbal barbs.
"Of all the faces to appear and fate chose yours. I was not expecting to see you, Osis Pathoth. I take it is no coincidence you are here and so far from the Eye. What brings you?"
"You are not the easiest sorcerer to find in this universe, Ahriman." Pathoth's tone was neutral, carefully measured. "I spent much time in tracking you down. Imagine my amazement to find your ship still in working order after so long."
"I have excellent Mechanicum priests," Ahriman calmly replied in the face of the insult. He felt the tension rise from all present on the bridge, those waiting for the invisible blade to fall and a battle to break out. "Why is my presence so important that you would seek me out and not one of your lackeys?"
Pathoth wanly smiled. "Our Primarch wished it to be so. None other could be entrusted with such a monumental task." He kept from saying more, deliberate in the action and at the same moment keenly reminding Ahriman who held Magnus's favour.
"And what is so crucial to be said that you have become the messenger?"
Beside Ahriman, Kapharon groaned quietly. Discreetly moving his fingers, the captain signalled the Master of Weapons to stand ready. If they were fortunate, their vessel could fire off one salvo before being obliterated from the stars.
"Such harsh words, Ahzek. Did you not say so yourself, long ago, we would cross paths once more? Where you would be the wiser of us both? Perhaps you should listen to what I have to say before jumping to unnecessary conclusions." Pathoth's face dominated the display screen, the unnatural colour of the vizier's eyes arresting everyone's movements. "Lord Magnus has seen the web of the future. Your strand was found to be weaving back into the greater fold once more. Your star is on the rise. In lieu of our Primarch being unable to be here in person, I have come as his proxy. As such, my word is as powerful as Magnus's would be."
Ahriman gripped his black staff. The desire he had quashed returned, being allowed to return home after so long. The exiled Sons, hearing their sojourn in the universe could soon be ended, looked expectantly at Ahriman. Yet, the caution Ahriman employed rose to the fore. "This is a bold move, not unlike Magnus but surprising. What is stopping me from killing you should I wish to, Pathoth? There's no amicable blood between us."
The laughter of the vizier boomed across the command deck, harsh and derisive. "My mission takes precedence before my ego. Magnus's word is law. If you wish to return to the Primarch's graces and not destroy the hope of your wayward cabal, it wouldn't be prudent to kill me. I stand here to see to it what my Primarch wishes will be so. If you attack me, he will see it as a strike against his own flesh."
Bitter acknowledgement swept over Ahriman. The tension eased from Ahriman's gene-enhanced body, but did not vanish. "What are the conditions to Magnus's assessment?"
"Now we are truly thinking alike, Ahriman." The patronizing smile Pathoth gave threatened to undo the mental calm Ahriman had achieved. "I will watch and observe, and come the time Magnus sees fit to bring you home, he shall inform me. Prior to that, I will join my forces to yours. Of course, you shall hold command. Think of me merely as an... advisor of sorts."
Ahriman thought he heard a note of derision in the words. Osis Pathoth, the Vizier of the Magus, subservient to his orders? The sorcerer smiled under his helm, considering the power dynamic. Pathoth's presence would be almost bearable.
"I assume these plans from our Primarch will take immediate effect?"
The vizier marginally inclined his head. "Of course."
"I will require a test of loyalty."
"Name it," came the answer, quick and assured.
Ahriman gestured at a point beyond the screen, in the direction where the death world of ice lay. "Break open the Jollana Librarium. Commit yourself to the battle. Allow me to see the truth to your words. As you are so fond of saying, do Magnus proud in your endeavour and you will find a place in my cabal."
Osis Pathoth led the assault against Jollana Librarium, if it was even worthy of being called an assault. Against an unarmed and mortal opponent, it was an absolute massacre. The Thunderhawk the vizier and his warriors were in screamed down through the frigid atmosphere, buffeted by the sheer winds which tossed ice and snow up into the heavens. Dropping through the thick clouds and out of the storms wracking the upper stratosphere, the Thunderhawk made straight for the grand librarium. It sat like a beacon in the middle of a snowy wasteland atop a spire of ice, the mirrored sides of the librarium weakly reflecting the light that glinted off the ice fields.
Inside the craft, Pathoth made ready with his squad of Rubric Terminators and sorcerer-adepts. He hadn't taken many warriors. It was meaningless to bring a company against scholars who had never fought a day in their lives. His helmet, the silver death mask with its mocking smile, was sealed and the jewels set into his power armour smouldered with an inner fire. Pathoth meditated, strapped upright in the vertical harness as the others were, one hand resting on the pommel of his khopesh, the other holding his ornate staff. Ahriman had been no fool to send Pathoth first to secure the librarium. In the event the rumours were false, and Jollana had hitherto unknown defences, Pathoth's marines would be the first to know.
He knew it would not happen. Before leaving the Planet of the Sorcerers, Pathoth had spent countless hours undergoing rituals to strengthen his body and fortitude his mind against the tasks before him. Magnus had been clandestine in his words to Pathoth, mentioning that Jollana was only the first step in the setting of a larger stage, with the galaxy as the backdrop. Use to such insubstantial words, Pathoth had thought no more on the subject. He trusted Magnus and the inherent workings of Tzeentch to show him the way.
"Thirty seconds to deployment," the pilot's voice crackled over the comm-link. The Thunderhawk banked to its left, angled out, then the craft shuddered as it landed on the large plaza dominating the area before the librarium. Lights flashed inside the vessel, harnesses were released, weapons made ready. The assault ramp dropped, and a bitterly cold wind rushed into the Thunderhawk, bringing with it a whirlwind of snow. With a pulsing thought, Pathoth ordered his Rubric Terminators forward, the five advancing in a diamond pattern across the snow-swept plaza. Behind them, Pathoth and his cohort of sorcerers followed, footprints wiped clean by the ferocious wind.
Jollana Librarium, crafted in the likeness of a grand cathedral from Terra, reflected the light of the world and the images of the invaders alike on smoke-coloured mirrors. Pathoth could not see any outer support structure beyond the reinforced steel gates standing before his war party. Nearly hidden under the snow drifts, the doors could only be opened from the inside, and it looked as though it hadn't happened in a long while.
"Open the door," the vizier ordered to the foremost of the Terminators.
Striding up to the doors of the librarium, the Rubric Terminator activated his lighting claws. Before the first stroke was finished the defences of Jollana countered. The surface of the mirrored panels bubbled, small orbs rising up from the dull glass. Slitted eyes appeared on the surface of the odd bubbles, locking on to the Chaos marine who was hacking away at the surface of the doors. Pathoth was a fraction of a second slower than the defence system, his mental command unable to reach the marine in time. Cut down by the barrage of powerful lasers, the Rubric Terminator fell silently, crashing into the deep snowdrifts.
The perceived threat dealt with, the eyes disappeared back into the mirrors.
The marine's soul flickered above his cracked and pitted armour, indecisive in where to go before Pathoth stretched out a hand and summoned the spirit to him. He guided the essence of the fallen Thousand Son into a jewel on his gauntlet. Safe there, the soul of the Rubric Marine would be bound once more when his armour was repaired. Gazing at the librarium with new respect, Pathoth weighted his options. For Terminator armour to be overcome so quickly, the technology could well predate Old Night. His thoughts must have been unguarded for one of the sorcerer's was quick to speak.
"An interesting choice of weaponry," Mhkai, a sorcerer-adept of the second tier, spoke out loud. "It will be a joy to know where this librarium took its security detail from, won't it, Lord Pathoth?"
"Indeed. A more brusque approach will be needed in overcoming this." Snapping his fingers, Pathoth singled out Bethos, a fourth-tiered mage. "Cover the librarium in currents of lightning. Technology still relies on circuitry no matter its form, and has always been weak to the natural powers of the Warp. If Ahriman hoped to know about the nature of this defence system, he should have come in person and not sent another."
A scattering of laughter came from the group. Bethos walked forward, careful to stay beyond the range of the librarium's defences and in the shadow of the Rubric Terminator. Blue sparks of lightning crackled from his fingertips, turning into great arcs which rose over the white snow and howling wind. Directing the lighting across the edifice, Bethos enclosed the smoky glass in the rippling currents born of power from the Warp. Piercing through the outer shell of the librarium, the sorcerer-adept forced the lightning into the minute circuitry he saw without physical eyes.
The result was instantaneous. Glass panes cracked; larger panels sheared down the middle and plummeted off the side, into the snow far below. Exposed to the harsh elements, the stone casing of Jollana lying underneath the mirrored exterior, was now undefended. Bethos turned back to his lord, the magic he wielded trickling away. He bowed, taking his place again next to his compatriots.
"Advance. Bring down the gateway."
Moving forward at the command, the second Rubric Terminator attacked the door with unbending determination. He cleaved through the metal with ease, the energy field surrounding his power fist crackling. A hole wide enough for two marines to walk abreast was created, the remains of the steel gateway curling outwards like flower petals, withered and useless. Without a thought to safety, the Rubric Marine passed through the hole and stepped into the librarium. The other Sons followed, leaving the Thunderhawk to guard the entry point.
Osis Pathoth beheld the majesty of Jollana Librarium for the first time, the beauty of its architectural interior not lost to the sorcerer. Flying buttresses ran down the length of the librarium's grand hallway, their height lost to the shadows where torchlight could not reach. Frescoes painted in gold leaf and silver lined either side of the corridor, the subjects varying from cherubim to hidden geometric patterns overlaying the next. Many scenes depicted the glories of the Imperium, Pathoth sneering at the lies wrought on the walls. Stain glass windows, undamaged from the lightning Bethos had unleashed, cast multicoloured light on the pale marble floor.
Passing down the middle of the grand hallway, the surviving Rubric Terminators flanking him, Pathoth walked quickly to the heart of Jollana. Mindful that by now the inhabitants of Jollana must know of the invaders, he cast his mind's eye ahead, searching the aether for signs of hostility. The sorcerer-adepts, led by Mhkai, maintained a kine shield over the group. Pathoth found no anger at what was happening and no defence preparations made by the people who called Jollana home. Doors to rooms and stairwells stayed closed. After the Ordo had been eliminated, a proper search of the librarium could begin.
"We knew this would happen. It was only a matter of time, the one constant in the galaxy that cannot be bartered for or reasoned with."
The voice, reedy and thin, came from an old man. He stood at the top of a wide staircase curving down into the atrium Pathoth and the Thousand Sons had marched into. Dressed in thick brown robes to ward off the chill, the elder human did not seem surprised to find the servants of Chaos in his halls.
"If you daresay you knew of our coming and had ample time to prepare, humour me." Pathoth looked at the man, the blue lens of his visor glinting menacingly. "Why did you not bother?"
"It was all the same, the ending. We looked for alternative paths, prayed to the God-Emperor for His guidance," the man made the sign of the aquila, "but nothing changed. We knew we were locked in our time. We've come to accept it with grace and humility. The taint of the Warp touches Jollana and all within. I have seen this very ending so many times. I'm glad this will be the last time I shall witness it."
While the man had been speaking others of the Jollana Ordo, similarly dressed in the same heavy robes, appeared. Grouped around the railing which ran the length of the second floor, half-hidden in shadow and exposed to the torchlight at the same moment, they were calm. Nobody struggled against the inevitable. Each waited passively, heads bowed and aquila rosaries wrapped in their hands.
Pathoth laughed at the sheer absurdity of it all. "Here you all stand, willing to die without a fight. Have you no idea who I am or what master I serve? Of the treasures and knowledge you leave unguarded in your passing?"
"It is unfortunate, but like your Legion was once, we were loathe to destroy the knowledge we have been bound to protect. No book shall be put to the torch, no manuscript shredded."
"The Thousand Sons still protect the sanctity of knowledge for the sake of knowledge," Bethos countered, growing angry at the old man's quiet air of superiority.
"You corrupt the knowledge you seek." The man, obviously the most senior of the Ordo, descended the staircase. His words held a strength to them his frail body lacked. "You serve a slave master but the Jollana Ordo, we serve a higher master who guides humanity and recognizes our sacrifice. Trying to speak common sense to you, Osis Pathoth, is like wringing blood from a stone. It can't be done." Without fear the old man looked up at the towering form of Pathoth. His presence was mocking, the smile he gave infuriating.
The vizier reached out with his mind, entrapping the elderly human in a psychic binding, and waved his staff ahead of him. A vicious thought was unleashed. In unison, four heavy bolters from the Rubric Marines were brought to bear on the undefended humans of Jollana. The nerves of many failed; they fled down the corridors in the upper levels of the librarium while their brethren died in the atrium. Not many seemed eager to accept death as their leader said they would. Soon the stench of blood permeated the air, the life-giving fluid trickling down the steps and pooling on the floor below.
"Your orders, lord?" Bethos was eager for a hunt, his aura wreathed in red. The Terminators, bolter clips empty and cartridge shells littering the floor, stood and waited for new orders.
"Find the cowards and strip their minds of the knowledge they hold. After that," Pathoth gazed at the leader of the Jollana Ordo, "dispose of the bodies."
Mhkai was the first sorcerer-adept to leave, hungering to ravage the unprotected minds of those he caught, adding their knowledge to his own. Bethos found his prey by following their fear and panic, their psychic backwash tangible. Not as bloodthirsty as the followers of Khorne, the servants of Tzeentch enjoyed destroying their enemies in a different matter. Screams of men driven mad by unknown terrors echoed down the marble halls, ending only when their tormentors allowed it to. Through it all, Pathoth questioned the leader of the former Jollana Ordo.
"A dangerous move for you, mortal, for you piqued my curiosity. How did you come to know my name? Not even the Imperium's Inquisition has such knowledge. Did something whisper it in your ear? Or was is a stroke of good luck?" At each question, the invisible bonds holding the man slowly tightened.
Instead of gibbering like an imbecile and begging for his life, the elder kept calm. "A little sprite told me." Sweat beaded his brow under the bodily assault, his voice growing fainter. "She talked about you to anyone who saw her. It always made me wonder how a little girl will trust a monster like yourself."
Slighted by the man's impunity, Pathoth gave the human a cruel but fitting death to match his riddling words. Forcing the power of the Immaterium into the man's weakened body, the sorcerer began to change his internal structure. Using his own body as a conduit, Pathoth allowed the powers that be to finish what he had begun.
Eyes erupted from smooth flesh, fingers dissolved into tapered fins, and the elder's face ran like the melted wax of a candle. Dropping the still-living body to the ground, watching the mortal thrash and die in agony as he became change itself, Pathoth activated the comm-link to the Khermuti.
"Pathoth to Lord Ahriman." He frowned at having to use the title and not being given the same respect in turn.
Static hissed across the channel, then Ahriman's voice, laced with veiled arrogance, spoke. "Has the attack on Jollana gone as planned?"
"It has. The grand librarium awaits your presence." Pathoth stepped over the now dead form of the old man. Black viscous fluid bubbled from the torn and mutilated flesh. "When will you begin your descent?"
"Within the hour. Have the librarium prepared before then."
Ahriman's imperious tone betrayed his excitement. The comm-link connection was broken, white noise crackling in Pathoth's ear. He turned the comm off with disdain, regarding the mutated body on the floor. He mulled over the last words the elder had spoken; finding it something to be locked away for contemplation at a later time and place, Pathoth placed it from his mind. There was a librarium to be seen, tomes to be taken for his own before others laid claim to them. Pathoth's footfalls echoed in the now silent cathedral, a slaughter house to the knowledge of the ages.
Ahriman went alone into the depths of the Jollana vaults. The grand sorcerer refused the Thousand Sons to follow, knowing the scroll he sought was meant for his eyes alone. Pathoth hadn't contested Ahriman's orders. Indeed, he had led him to the doorway leading into the catacombs. Confident there were no defences in the colossal vaults, hollowed chambers carved from ice and locked with powerful wards, Ahriman's staff rapped in time to his footsteps. Descending the marble stairwell, where stalactites of ice hung overhead, Ahriman's psychic mastery annulled the protective sigils on every vault he passed.
Guided along by the currents of the Warp which ebbed and flowed around Ahriman, the sorcerer arrived at the last vault. He could sense the treasure beyond the barriers, the weight it carried crushing against the seals holding it safe. Not for much longer. Left hand touching the surface of the vault door, a faceless sheet of adamantium with no lock or keyhole, Ahriman flexed his mind. An invisible force impacted on the psychic shield in one swift blow. The holy wards defending the vault door broke amid the sound of falling glass. More blows rained against the metallic surface, weakening the adamantium until the final impact brought it down. Amid the sound of ice sheering and cracking along the walls, the door caved outwards. Ahriman stepped over the crumpled metal and into the vault.
Frigid air flowed into the repository, mixing with the musty air locked away for so long. It was the scent of unopened books left to dust and mildew, of dormant secrets about to be laid bare. Cloying and familiar, the smell reminded Ahriman of other librariums plundered and storehouses ransacked. Endless shelves of books drew back into the shadows, lost from view. On the shelves sat small chests, locked in chains and stamped with the seal of the double-headed eagle. Kept in the vault for so long, the contents within some of the chests were powerful enough to have warped the surface of their containers. Faces twisted in agony were reflected on the metallic sheen of the reliquaries. Ahriman walked past the strongboxes, deaf to the pleading souls whispered promises.
He kept to his path. Ahriman knew what he was looking for. What had been waiting for him.
The marine halted before a chest made of bronze and inscribed with runes of an unknown script. Brushing the dust from the lid, Ahriman cracked open the chest housing the Jollana scroll. He reached in and withdrew the yellowed vellum, bound tightly and capped in silver. The possibilities the scroll could reveal, the powers Ahriman was capable of binding to his will, were limitless. And now his.
"Ill-gotten gains you hold in your hands. A being as seeped in blood and damnation as yourself, even if you took the Emperor's forgiveness, would be cast from His light and into the maws of the Warp beasts."
Ahriman turned in surprise to the thundering voice. Standing at the opening of the vault was a man clad in black power armour, heavily edged in gold. Gazing down the blade of a force sword, this stranger pointed it at the sorcerer's throat, eyes burning with the affirmation of one who knew right from wrong with no grey between. Slips of parchment covered the warrior's armour, holy litanies scrawled across the white surface. Ahriman glimpsed the despicable symbol of the Inquisition embossed on the armour. Blood thundering, the Tzeentchian prepared himself for a confrontation.
"Emperor's maggots is all you are," Ahriman hissed. He held the divination scroll in his left hand, transferring the staff to his right. How the Inquisitor's existence had gone unnoticed would be resolved later; Ahriman had to act. "Weak-minded fools who cannot think for themselves, that is what the Inquisition is. You're beholden to a weak mortal who lied to everyone."
"I have given my oath to the God-Emperor that I will be the hand to slay you." The Inquisitor's blade never wavered from its intended target, his tone deadly.
"I wouldn't recommend it, Inquisitor. Taking on a Chaos sorcerer is a mission for morons and fools. Which are you?" Ahriman edged into the shadows between the bookcases, gathering tendrils of Warp energy to the focal eyepiece of his staff. From encounters with past Inquisitors, Ahriman had learned to wait, letting the mortals make the first move and then counter.
"For decades I have tracked your path, arch-heretic, and I will have your head if it kills me." The unnamed Inquisitor took a step inside the repository. "The Ordo Hereticus does not suffer the witch to live. You have lived long past your time. Upon my pledge to the Throne, today will find you facing your judgement!"
"Your mind is as jagged as your tongue. I have never seen your face though I know many of your brethren. After I break your bones, I shall take what secrets your sort is so fond of from your mind." The theatrics of the other was tiring, his words pure madness. Ahriman had never met this lunatic until now.
"Listen not to the words of Chaos for they hide behind falsehoods and under the guise of corruption!" With a voice of a preacher the Inquisitor quoted catechisms. "You took the rightful toll from the Black Ships that day, leaving Inno charred in your passing. Your plotting began on that very world, but with His providence, I was sent there to root out your corruption. And now I will finish my duty."
Ahriman's confusion was short-lived. The lapdog of the Emperor charged, a lance of righteous fury striking at its foe. Facing the Inquisitor's blow with his staff raised, Ahriman unleashed an onslaught of psychic power. The downwards strike of the force sword was rebuffed by an ethereal barrier; an opening in the Inquisitor's guard was made. Continuing his attack, Ahriman manifested lighting in the air to bring against his crazed enemy.
"Blessed are those who keep faith in Him," roared the Inquisitor. "He who dies in the glory of the Imperium will be forever venerated!" Barrelling past the lightning barrage, armour free of scorch marks and pitting, the warrior crashed into – and fell through – Ahriman. Bracing himself for a crushing blow, the Chaos marine felt the phantom dissipate in its passing until nothing remained. It left Ahriman chill inside with muscles knotted and stomach roiling. The virtuous words echoed in the icy tomb like a bad dream until they too faded.
The most basic of initiates in esoteric lore knew a sending when it occurred. Fooled by the skill its crafting took, and feeding from the confusion it brought about, Ahriman chuckled mirthlessly to himself. He had nearly brought himself to a state of panic by some thing which held no substantial form.
The sending's words rang in his mind. Witch hunters and phantoms of the void never unsettled him. This one had.
A sending, when manifested, came with purpose and intent. Hurtled through the seething mass of the Immaterium to Ahriman, the mage would find the reason behind this one appearing in Jollana. No coincidences existed in a galaxy as vast and tumultuous as this. Keeping the knowledge of the encounter to himself was the wisest course of action, Ahriman concluded. If Pathoth were to find out he would have no peace, hounded for what he was hiding. Some secrets were better kept to oneself.
Clutched protectively against Ahriman's chest, the scroll remained unharmed. Now, greedily, Ahriman unwound the cords and unfurled its blank surface. He intently studied the empty parchment, frayed along the edges and yellowed with age. Then, like raindrops of ink falling and caught by the vellum, faint markings began to appear. Weak at first, they grew stronger until writing covered the scroll. Words bloomed along the parchment, twisting its way along, recognizing the diviner abilities of the one who held it. Numbers and the names sprang forth, the locations of planets and their bearings in the universe given in fine detail.
One name kept reappearing, Ahriman discerned, a name perfectly divided into itself and holding the numerological balance of creation and destruction. The spheres of the universe worked of their own accordance, though nothing was cast blindly to chance. Such a thing did not exist. It was the exact name the phantom had screamed at Ahriman.
Inno.
He had been right, the former sage of Jollana Librarium. The Warp blessed Jollana with its touch. Pathoth relished being so close to it, almost reminiscent of the Planet of the Sorcerers. Everything in the librarium was infused by the Empyrean, the air rippling with rich colour and sound to those possessing the higher senses to see it. At the corner of his sight, just beyond the faintest whisper and with the assurance of a promise fulfilled, Pathoth knew the power of Tzeentch waited.
The vizier had found a private library toward the summit of the librarium and set to perusing the shelves. Perhaps its owner was the elder lying dead in the atrium far below. One hand idly drifted over the titles of the books, many which Pathoth already held in his collection. The small library, which ran the length of the curving wall, gave a magnificent view of the snowy plains far below the cathedral. Pathoth ignored the panorama, having seen more awe-inspiring scenery in his lifetime. Lumen globes, hanging from fanciful iron cages, cast a warm glow about the chamber. Pathoth's eyes settled on the gold script of a book's spine, Parvala Vicis, the title unfamiliar to the sorcerer. He was about to pull it from the shelf when a child's voice called to the Chaos marine.
"Pathoth! I finally found you."
Pathoth turned about at the sound of his name, certain there were no children present in Jollana when it was taken. Yet there was one, who somehow knew who he was, carefully making her way down the marble steps leading into the bibliotheca. She was small, as all children were to Astartes, dressed in a multitude of colourful robes with powerful runes sewn into the hemline. Her pale blonde hair was swept back into a tight plait, her blue eyes sharp, and she smiled as she approached the vizier. A Gyrinx was curled in her arms, the xeno feline passively looking at the giant towering over it.
"I knew I would find you here," the little girl chirped. "You're always here. Is there anything new to read, Pathoth? Another bedtime story?" She spoke without fear, standing alongside the Chaos marine and chatting amicably with him. Pathoth speculated how a mere infant would know his name. The words of the deceased elder were now falling into place. The embrace of the Warp was indeed close. Jollana was a host to gateways to other realms and distant, undefined futures. Sometimes beings appeared.
Pathoth knelt down, removing his morbid helmet to look the girl in the eye. He would humour this child to glean answers. "No, I have found nothing new. You will have to make do with stories of ancient villains and demi-gods until I can find something more noteworthy."
"Stories with princes? And Eldar?" Her face grew excited and she jumped up, barely grazing Pathoth's knee.
He frowned. "Nothing as simple-minded as that, sprite. Where have you come from?"
"The Khermuti's observation deck." Mistaking Pathoth's raised eyebrow as disapproval instead of confusion, the child hurried on. "I know you don't want me up there but Argos," the Gyrinx turned its head at the name, "ran up there and I had to get him. He could have gotten lost, or worse, become someone's dinner. Don't tell Ahriman of this, please."
Pathoth touched his nose. "I will keep this in utter confidence between us." Her words befuddled the mage. There was no observation deck surrounding them, just bookshelves, and absolutely no children were aboard Ahriman's vessel. He knew little of children, finding himself uncomfortable in the presence of this one. The vizier changed tactics.
"Tell me, sprite, how do you know who I am?"
It was the child's turn to look confused. "Because you have told me. Are we playing the guessing game? I forgot the scorecard in my room."
"There is no time for games today, child. But tell me, what is your name?"
The girl giggled. "Pathoth, are you being silly? You know my name." In her arms, the feline began to lick its paws.
Laughing along with the entity Pathoth said, "I suppose I am. Enlighten me, for as you know, I am old. Ten thousand years is a long time."
"My name's Neferuaat." She accentuated the last syllable, raising her nose delicately at the same time.
"Neferuaat. That is a pretty name. Who gave it to you?"
"You really are being silly today," Neferuaat declared. "How could you forget my name? You gave it to me, telling me it was- Argos, come back here!"
The Gyrinx sprang from the child's arms and sprinted back up the stairs, claws tapping against the stone. Neferuaat took off after her pet, a flurry of violet and indigo robes, racing to catch the retreating feline. A Rubric Terminator entered the library, the automaton barrelling into the path of the child without stopping. Pathoth was about to shout a warning, the words stopped when he saw the child phase through the Rubric Terminator. She vanished, her form and the Gyrinx no more substantial than smoke.
"Lord Pathoth," the disembodied spirit in the armour rumbled. "Is something amiss?"
"No. The shadows in this place are merely playing tricks on my mind." Pathoth lowered his arm, unaware he had moved. Dismissing the Rubric Terminator with a wave of his hand, the Thousand Son ruminated at what he had born witness to.
A sending from a future point carved into stone, immutable and unchanging. Such things were rare, seldom happening in one's lifetime. In the course of his existence, Pathoth had been blessed to note five such missives, each leading to a higher plane of understanding. Storing the encounter away in his memory, the sorcerer returned to the bookshelf as if nothing had happened.
Whatever reason Ahriman had in coming to the Jollana Librarium, fate had chosen Pathoth to be present as well. At last, Primarch Magnus's words were beginning to make sense to Osis Pathoth.